


Scars

by Grushenka



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dark Past, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Loss, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-23 01:36:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15595344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grushenka/pseuds/Grushenka
Summary: Angsty short piece with romanced Zev and fwarden ultimate sacrifice.





	Scars

“You look tired my dear warden, perhaps you should rest?” Zevran’s heavily-accented voice cut through the still night air. He had approached her as she sat by the fire alone. She hadn’t acknowledged his presence, but instead stared into the flames that danced near her feet. 

He sat beside her, if he had noticed her stony expression he gave no indication. 

“Such long days on the road, Alathea, they are not good for a woman of your beauty,” he said, clicking his tongue. “You should allow me to help you, it is the least I can do for the one who spared my life, no?”

She remained silent as he lowered himself beside her. Alathea stared at something in the fire, memories long past, ghosts that existed only in her mind. She heard the Antivan’s words, but they were far, far away. 

Zevran glanced at her, then at the fire. A smirk tugged at the corner of his full lips. When his eyes turned back to her he saw a single tear trace slip down her scarred cheek. A long, angry red line traced across her face, beginning somewhere in her thick, brown hair and ending at her jaw. A patch of her skin was marred with burn marks, her delicate lower lip was disfigured by a another ragged scar. Gifts of Arl Howe, from what bits of information he had gathered. Alathea was a girl of few words, most nobles were all too willing to hear the sound of their voice, but not her. She had barely said anything to him since she had allowed him to join her group, it was most vexing to the assassin. 

“Do you see something that I cannot, dear Warden?” he asked, his voice softer. He wanted to reach out and brush the tear from her pale skin, but he held his hand back. He would have to be cautious with this girl, her experiences had made her mistrustful, cold even. She didn’t want to kill him, he was fairly certain of that, but she didn’t seem particularly pleased with his company either. 

Alathea turned towards him, her expression harsh and her eyes guarded. “Why are you here, Zevran?” 

The elf’s light eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I do not understand, do you mean here as in Ferelden? This camp? This life? I do believe the answer to the first two would be because of you, fair Alathea.” 

“You are a free man, you are free to leave.” Zevran noted the flatness of her voice, although they sat beside each other she was leagues away from him. She kept herself locked away in the past, a prisoner of her own pain. 

“I think I shall stay right here, dear Warden, if you will allow it. If the Crows were to discover that I lived still, they would be most displeased with my failure. I am safer under your protection, and I have many skills that I can offer you as well.” His eyebrows arched up suggestively, his bright blue eyes shone with mischief. 

“Do you ever mean the things you say, Zevran?” Alathea asked. Her dark hazel eyes stared back at him, cold beneath her heavy black brows. If she caught the insinuation in his words, she didn’t show it. 

“To you? Always,” the elf replied, a wide grin spreading across his handsome, tanned face. 

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“Such mistrust! I am wounded, my dear Warden.”

Alathea’s eyes remained fixed on him, her face expressionless. She turned back to the fire. “You are an assassin. I’m expecting you to try it again.”

Zevran let out a loud, throaty laugh. “As if that would satisfy the Crows! No, I am afraid that failure is not tolerated, even if I were to kill you now, still I would be punished. I believe it is _I_ who should fear _your_ wrath, Alathea.” 

“Death doesn’t give me any satisfaction, Zevran. It can’t undo what’s been done.” Her head turned again, but this time softer eyes stared back at him.

“You have wisdom beyond your years, my friend.” Zevran’s eyes darted over her face, searching it for any readable emotion. Regret, that was all he could see. He had never had an opportunity to see her face in this much detail, she bore many scars. Once she had surely been beautiful, but now...it was clear that someone had taken a knife to her. A savage, brutal attack, possibly even torture. The crueler Crows employed such tactics, but Zevran preferred a clean, simple death for his victims. 

“So you expect me to protect you from the Crows?”

“I do not _expect_ protection, as much as I hope that I can prove myself useful enough to you.” Zevran paused and brushed a loose lock of blonde hair from his face. “Perhaps you will decide that keeping me around is better than abandoning me to my fate.”

Alathea’s scarred lips crept up in a small smirk. It was good to see a hint of a smile on her face. 

“Besides, how could I not at least _try_ to charm my way into the company of a beautiful, capable woman such as yourself? You have spared my life, saved me from death at the hands of the Crows, it is romantic, no?” Zevran flashed her a roguish grin. 

Her faint smile turned into a frown. “I don’t appreciate false flattery, elf,” she said, her voice suddenly harsh. 

“It is not false, Alathea, beauty comes in many forms. Our bodies tell our story, the scars, marks, tattoos, they are all part of who we are.” He motioned towards the tattoos on his face. “These were not done willingly my friend, alas, they were intended to make me more attractive to my marks.” His thumb rubbed over a long black curve on his cheekbone. “Now they are a part of me, I cannot remember what it was like when they were not there.” 

Alathea’s expression softened, but was still steely. “So you seduced your marks as well? Is that what you are trying to do here?” She sighed and glanced back at the fire. “If that’s your plan, just go ahead and kill me.”

Her words struck Zevran, hard. In truth, that hadn’t been what he was attempting, not at all. Something in Alathea reminded him of a younger Zevran, she was the first person to show him pity. No one else would have spared his life, of that he was quite sure. He had paid for his foolish sentimentality when he was young, but he didn’t want that same pain for her, the girl had gone through enough. He had thought death would free him from his agony, from the nightmares of Rinna’s lifeless eyes staring back at him, but instead he had found a new life. An opportunity that he would not waste. If he could help Alathea as well, then why not? He owed as much to her. 

“No, my dear Warden, it is not,” he replied, his voice serious. “You have nothing to fear from me, that I can promise you.” 

“Do you fear me?” Alathea asked him. 

“I…” Zevran faltered. “I do not know. Perhaps.” 

“Is that why you sleep with a knife under your pillow?” Alathea’s murky eyes scanned the fire, hunting for some truth that lay hidden within it. 

The girl was more perceptive than Zevran had realized. He did indeed sleep with a dagger beneath his pillow, often with his hand clasped around the handle. Some part of him feared that Alathea would discover who he really was, find out just how heartless of a man he was, and that she and the others would kill him. The dullard, male Gray Warden had not wanted him to join them, nor the angry witch. Surely they would eventually realize that they had a viper sleeping amongst them. 

“You are a very observant woman, my dear Warden.” Zevran shifted uncomfortably. 

“You have nothing to fear from me, either. Or Alistair and Morrigan.” 

“Yes, well, it is my experience that few people will actually _tell_ you when you are in danger…”

Alathea turned to look at him. “I don’t lie.”

“No, I don’t imagine that you do,” Zevran murmured. Her dark hazel eyes were a mix of green and brown, she had scars tracing over the bridge of her nose, her forehead, down her cheeks, even across her chin. There were burns marks across one of her eyes, as if someone had tried to burn her eye out with a torch. The marks continued down her neck and under her armor, he found himself wondering what other scars hid beneath her chainmail. 

\---

He eventually came to find that she bore many marks on her, both physical and emotional. She was a tall, strong Ferelden woman who could leap onto the backs of ogres and saw off their heads with a few savage hacks. Yet with him she was timid, afraid even. He cherished her all the more for it. He made Arl Howe pay for everything that he had ever done to his dear, beautiful Warden. 

Now she lay in his arms, dying. 

“Stay with me Alathea, please,” he begged, his blood-splattered head bowed over her. He cradled her in his lap, he stroked her scarred cheeks and lips. “Please….please…”

Alathea’s breaths were ragged, they came slowly and irregularly. Zevran knew that she had only moments left. She had paid the ultimate price to end the Blight. 

“Alathea...Alathea…” he murmured, desperately. “I have loved you more than I thought possible, you must know that.” He choked back his tears. “I...I cannot bear the thought of life without you.” 

“Do you...ever...mean...the things...you say,” she whispered, her faint voice struggling to escape her wounded throat. A weak smile crossed her lips. 

Zevran laughed through his tears, they spilled unchecked down his cheeks. How many times had he heard his dear Warden say those very same words. It had become a sort of joke between them, an acknowledgment of how long it had taken them to trust one another. 

“For you, my love, I would storm the Dark City itself.” He ran a thumb across her chin. “Never doubt it.” 

“Zev…” 

He pressed a kiss against her forehead, knowing that this would be the last time. The last embrace, the last time he would hear his name slip from between her beautiful, scarred lips. Her body went slack in his arms, he felt as if his very heart had been ripped from his chest. 

"Don't leave me _mi corazon_ ," he whispered, his arms gripping her desperately, as if somehow he could bring her back to him. _Mi vida, mi todo._

 

\---

He stood at her grave, a small bunch of white flowers in his hands. She had a grand memorial, she was the Hero of Ferelden, afterall. Each year on the anniversary of her death he would slip in at dawn, before anyone else could come, and he would bring her the flowers that she had loved most. Small, white blooms that he had found for her deep in the Brecilian forests. This year he almost hadn’t made it, he had offered his services for protection for Alistair, the new King of Ferelden. Now he faced threats from the Crows and from Alistair’s own enemies, it was never a dull moment. 

He did it because it was what she would have wanted. She would have dedicated herself to Alistair’s service, to the service of the Wardens. 

Zevran crouched down before the small gravestone that was placed in the ground. He knew that her body was interred beneath it. Behind it loomed a great statue of her, he found it somewhat insulting that the artist had rendered her without her burns and scars. It was a sanitized version of her, not Alathea as she was, as he and her closest friends knew her. 

He watched as the sun began to rise from behind the monument, its golden beams spilling over the lush, green Ferelden countryside. This place was her home. The setting of her most pleasant dreams, and her most terrible nightmares. He only wished he could have seen it with her, before…

Zevran let out a loud sigh. He could still feel her in his arms, he could hear her soft, quiet voice. She lived forever in his memories. 

“I will never forget you, _mi corazon_.


End file.
